Don Vittorio Novels & Stories

[Noah's POV] Don Viti snatched a gold pen from his breast pocket. He grabbed a clean linen napkin from the table and began scribbling. "I am Viti! I own the south!" Don Viti bellowed. He threw the napkin at Adrian's chest. "The deeds to twelve luxury resorts along the Amalfi Coast," Don Viti declared. He pointed a shaking finger at the wrinkled linen. "And the monopoly on the southern legal vineyards. Put them in my granddaughter's name by sunset."

“You—you are Don Dante Romano?!” “In the flesh.” I knew him. I definitely knew him. Hell, any Italian person who has the barest connection with the underground world would know him. Youngest Don in history. This man became a don at age fourteen. At age fourteen I was having sleepovers, painting my nails, beheading my Barbie dolls, and doing weird makeups with my mother, while he was going around, shooting, killing, and selling hard drugs and bizarre things. Marriage with him was like selling myself to the devil.

At the light beep of a car’s horn, Duke looked up, then drew his phone from his pocket and checked the open app again. “We’re going to see a pig? I don’t think we’re quite dressed for that.” Pivoting as the car pulled along the curb, he checked the vehicle’s plate. Then opened the rear passenger door and scoped out the driver. The car’s owner swiveled at the waist, meeting his gaze. “Signore Carter? Duke Carter?” In his heavy Italian, Duke’s name sounded more like ‘duck’. “Marco?” “Sì!” he grinned, nodding vehemently. “Mercato Nuove?”

Damn him he actually looked good in his all black attire. "So are you Don," I responded looking around. He definitely here with some men. "I came alone. After the person I sent failed, I thought it was best I took matters into my own hands," Vittore said rolling up the sleeves of the black long sleeved button up shirt. His muscles flexed and his tattoos looked tempting. "Vittore Martinelli getting his hands dirty?" I asked with a raised eyebrow as I slipped off my denim jacket. "It comes with being a good leader. You have to show your subjects you can play our part in the field too," he responded running a hand through his hair. A plan formed in my head.

I whispered, "I'm sorry if I did anything wrong. Please. I even remember the rules. Respect, obe-" "No, Bella. Stop. " He said sharply. "You're mine. I won't let another man lay a hand on you." His words were a balm on my reopened scars, but his tone was cold. Eyes trained on Zach's, he seethed under his hard veneer as Arthur unlocked the door caging my rapist. This wasn't Mariano. This was Don. The head of the Italian Mafia, the one I didn't know too well. As soon as Zach took a step, Mariano shook free from my grasp abruptly, and stormed to him, punching him in the face, and pressed Zach against the wall.

I asked, my voice betraying a rare flicker of uncertainty. “Of course I do,” he said, leaning forward slightly, the shadows finally peeling away from his face. And then I saw him. Don Salvador. My breath caught in my throat. Vincenzo’s relative. A member of the council. One of the most powerful men in the criminal underworld.

Vittorio’s jaw clenched the moment his gaze landed on Matteo and his hand came down hard on the table, silencing whispers. “What the hell is this?” Vittorio’s voice was low but thunderous cutting through the chamber. “Why the fuck is he here? Who brought in this animal?” Matteo stepped forward, trying to mask the caution in his stance with confidence. “Don Vittorio,” he’s said, his voice smooth and practiced, “I come only to—”

I used to doubt the possibility of them being obsessed with Alpha Leonardo, until the first time I set my eyes on him at the marketplace. He had the perfect height, 6ft tall, well-structured face with a chiseled nose. His brown eyes were so beautiful that I almost mistook him for a beautiful lady. His body frame was also perfect; athletic-like. I’d never seen a man so perfectly created by the Goddess. But his personality spoiled it all. He was ruthless and merciless, prideful and arrogant. A disgusting beast, who had zero regard for his subjects. Everyone detested him, and I was the front-runner. My hatred for him grew after the incident at the marketplace when his men knocked down an old la

The low amber glow of the chandelier casting eerie silhouettes over the faces of men who had built empires on blood and fear and unwavering loyalty. I sat at my usual spot at the long mahogany table with fingers drumming idly against the polished surface my gaze locked on Don Vittorio Romano. The man with a similar last name to mine but we still don’t share a single thing. The Capo dei Capi. The man who despite his failing health still had the audacity to challenge me.

I once thought I'd marry him, I loved him, I still do, but I am not in love with him, and he is forever bound to Belle Valentino. I am sitting upright on my bed, staring at his name as it flashes through my screen, repeatedly. Relectantly, I pick it up. "Baby." He says, and I grin, immediately switching it to face time. "Marcello." I laugh. Damain Marcello Mikealson is a very handsome italian man, perfect but weighed by past love and trauma. One of the things we all share is Trauma. "Clementine," He grins childishly. "How is London?"